When the moon has gone I fly on alone
—W. S. Merwin
That wolf of a day, the woodlands of my new grief:
you ate all the words, you fed me only worry.
Now it is all I can eat for years and years to come.
You wove a blanket of wool that covers me, the threads
like worms. My grief is an empty womb as pink as quartz.
Everything is wrong. Even the whippoorwill calls
in the afternoon rather than under the woeful moon
that now sits in a woodpile of stars. Useless.